_Second lord._ Fair in the flower, but no fruit, my lord. The fragrance sickens. A sound wholesome deed Were pungent sniffing! _Aris._ Sir, upon the soil Of this fair courtesy I'd lodge a seed Might bloom with Dion's pardon. _Diony._ Pardon Dion! By Delos' horned altar, no! My tongue Compound my own destruction? _Aris._ Sir, your tongue Is bound to you, but I could wish it had A wiser master. _Diony._ Roast me in the bull Of Phalaris, if I be such a fool! Thou know'st that he conspired against me! _Aris._ Nay---- _Diony._ With honey breath you steal into my heart But to betray it! _Aris._ I pray your leave to sail From Sicily. Greece hath a place for me Above insult. _Diony._ Go when you will. To-day! Our admiral shall bear you. [_To Heraclides_] Hear you, sir? Choose out your ship. Aristocles, farewell. Talk not of me i' the Acad�me. _Aris._ My lord, The gods take care we've no such dearth of matter. Farewell. _Diony._ [_As Aristocles turns to go_] Dost mean it? Nay! Spoil not my jest. Canst take offence from one who loveth thee? In truth wouldst go? _Aris._ The winds that fan me hence Will be as welcome as the breeze that lifts The sail of calm-bound mariners that long Have in mid-ocean rocked and dreamed of food. _Diony._ No, no, my friend! Thou shalt not go from me! Dost call thyself philosopher, and take First chance to fly thy duty here? Hear you, Lord admiral. Watch every gate nor let This bold man pass. Sink the Sicilian fleet Ere you do spare a ship for hire or pity To grant him sail and beggar me of friends, For all my friends are corporate now in him. [_To Aristocles_] Talk not of parting while you have my love. Cold yet? Go seek my sister. She will bring Your high look to sweet friendship's level. Go. Yours is the only tongue can draw her from Her tearful reticence. Tell her the stars Will find me with her. I have news too new For pale indifference. 'Twill rouse her wrath Or pleasure. [_Speusippus and companions pass from garden to street and off left_] Ha, what Greekish stranger there? _Phil._ Speusippus, sir. _Diony._ Methought his acid look Had turned my purple cloak a pauperish yellow. _Phil._ Aristocles best knows him. An Athenian. _Aris._ [_Who is slowly going into palace by smaller entrance, front, turns_] And worthy of his birth. He is my friend, And brings me Dion's love. _Diony._ That name again! ... Well, thou 'rt my soul. [_Aristocles goes into palace. Dionysius turns to larger entrance rear_]